


stars and midnight blue

by borisrings, papenathy



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Fights, Gay, Hurt/Comfort, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, New Years Eve Kiss, angsty, boris just wants a boyfriend, but happy ending, donna take notes, erin wrote chap1, lou wrote chap2, myriam is a lesbian queen, please don’t hate us, repressed homosexuality, support us this was based on a prompt generator, theo being a cancer. again, theo is depressed, we wrote this right after seeing the movie, whats new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borisrings/pseuds/borisrings, https://archiveofourown.org/users/papenathy/pseuds/papenathy
Summary: He was holding me down, there was nowhere I could go—I suppose I very well could’ve tried, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t. An unknown force willed me to let whatever was going on continue, feeling my chest rise and fall as I caught my breath. I just looked up at every inch of his face over and over trying to memorise it because I had an awful feeling that one day I would have to let him go and days would exist where the world would not feel like it was inhabited only by the two of us.—I turned my head, feeling vulnerable under his eyes, which made me feel an awful pain in my chest because he was so beautiful here, under the starry sky, the snow protecting his hair, his mouth ajar, so kissable—I lowered my eyes, slowly enough to see his watch adorning his wrist, in silver, the second hand slowly advancing, as if the world had stopped, and that there was only me, only him. There has always been only him.Almost midnight.





	1. theo - new year's eve, 2006

**Author's Note:**

> to maud from erin and lou (we're sorry for the trauma) love u <3
> 
> here the playlist for the fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5qyczpqdNNL46L2P5qb3Gp?si=bs3YOB2OSWaZQaPBwu6vlw.
> 
> erin’s twitter: @theodecks  
lou’s twitter: @goldenpavls  
come and say hi!
> 
> enjoy.

** _Once you filled my hands with roses,_ **

** _Then you gave your heart to me._ **

** _When a kiss had followed this,_ **

** _Love was meant to be._ **

The very idea of losing yourself in your own mind starts to become terrifying when you cease to remember the sensation of being found. Quite often, losing myself came easier than expected; switching off my brain and just letting go, forgiving and forgetting—this, unfortunately, only came easy to me through the use of substance. Vodka, Vicodin, whatever we could get our dirty little hands on. In the right volumes, it could sweep me off my feet and take me somewhere else—a lighter, happier place where I didn’t feel as though I had the weight of my trauma and burden placed on my shoulders and I could just be _ free. _ I laughed, _ we _laughed. We didn’t stop. Losing myself helped me to forget, but there comes a time where you discover a way of losing yourself that makes you feel more alive than any drink or drug could possibly achieve. 

Essentially, you lose yourself in someone else.

You lose yourself in someone who helps you to forget, so much so you cease to remember before and after and all that matters is _ them _ and how they make you feel during your moments of closeness. You don’t think of the consequences, you don’t think of what other people would think if they knew, you simply don’t care. You don’t give a single fuck what anyone else thinks, or what you think of yourself; because all you can think is _ more, more, more… _and your brain goes blank and your heart starts beating again after so long of being stone cold in your chest and somehow for some unfathomable reason it feels better than being high or being drunk or whatever—you let go. 

Afterwards, though. That’s when it starts to get confusing. The thinking about it, the decision not to say anything, and moving on with our day like everything is absolutely normal and we hadn’t just lost ourselves in each other in the dark—behind the walls, behind the curtains, behind our imaginary barriers. It was easy enough to write off with the idea that we were both just simply hormonal teenage boys, drunk off our asses most of the time, wanting to try things out. Just as a joke, or another form of escape—forgetting about everything else just for a few moments; we were both just lonely. It bothered me when I thought back on it, sure, but what kept me sane was the fact that it wasn’t particularly intimate by any stretch of the imagination. We weren’t doing it because we were in love, we were doing it because… well; he was there, and so was I, so _ why the fuck not? _

However, as time goes on—things change. A fact of life, if you will, is that over time your relationships with people will change and how you feel about them will change. It gets to a point where everything starts to feel like it’s getting a little too real, and not like a hazy dream or an acid trip or drunken shenanigans… something _ real, _and you both know it without saying. We had a rule, an unspoken one but it was there (as clear as day) and that rule was: we were not allowed to kiss. Plain and simple, he knew it and I knew it—kissing would make things real, well… more real than they already were. I wanted everything to stop all together, truly, but Boris was so untroubled and unbothered by it (at least he seemed that way) that I thought I should act in that way too. I couldn’t afford to be as sensitive as I was feeling, it was going to kill me.

That night, though, was like a turning point in my head—like I had reached the end of a road, and I could turn either left or right; or just stay where I was, letting the cars behind me pile up and crash into me one by one until everything went up in smoke, a wave of explosions. For a large portion of my existence I was an accident waiting to happen. I was faced with questions I didn’t want to answer. I had a life I didn’t want to live. But some moments, as they were happening, made me think that this cruel, fucked up world did in fact have some happiness to offer me—but it always turned out the same. I would despise myself for the things that felt right to me, and the things that made me happy, and proceed to live a lie. I was, strictly speaking, a fraud. 

When I thought about happiness as a concept my mind didn’t have much to offer me. The memories were limited, mostly to when I was a child and my mother was alive—her taking me to the movie theater downtown, central park even on a cloudy day, her telling me about her days in Kansas over Chinese takeout at the kitchen counter; horses, their names, lengthy descriptions of how she’d take care of them. Going out for lunch, _ her treat, _ ruffling my hair as she walked by me, waiting for me outside of school, waving and ducking down to envelope me in one of her special, warm hugs. _ How was your day, Puppy? _ Movie nights on the floor in front of the television, without my dad, always my choice, she’d say—but I’d make her pick sometimes, because I liked to see the world through her eyes more than my own. She’d point out all the good parts, but also the mistakes. Little things you wouldn’t even notice, but once you did, you could never unsee—like breaks of character, slip ups, placement of hair changing dramatically in between shots. She was always good at noticing all the small things, and _ after _I couldn’t help but miss them. 

But, I noticed I started to pick up on small things again when I met Boris. Not really about the world around us, but about _ him. _He had become a landmark, somehow—a point of reference that allowed me to make some sense of what existence actually entailed. Everything else was hazy, black and white or muffled; sometimes I thought I could put my hand right through my father if I tried, like he was a hologram, or if I knocked into Xandra she’d disappear into smoke—or, if I pushed at the walls they would melt under my touch, puddling at my feet; and, more disturbingly, if I stared at my stoic expression in the mirror for too long I could claw at my skin and it would slip right off like an overworn sweater and I wouldn’t feel a single thing. My whole life felt like an imitation of something that didn’t belong to me. 

Boris, though—he was real. I knew he was real when I first met him, his thick accent and gloomy, unheeding and fervent demeanour seemed to have pulled me right out of the depths of the void I had been dragged into and shoved me encouragingly to the light. He had been an outstretched hand when I needed one the most, and unlike most of the other people in my life—he wasn’t going to let go, and I knew he wasn’t going to let go; because I wasn’t the only one who needed a hand to hold onto. 

He was real, and he made me feel real; more than anyone ever could. Looking back I realised that moments where I felt the most alive were the moments where I would notice the small things about him. Laying in bed, the sunrise just tipping over the edge and inching into the room, my back to the window, Boris facing me, his eyes delicately closed and one arm tucked under his pillow—his chest rising and falling with each slow beat of my heart. The sunlight would spill over his features and he wouldn’t even flinch, his messy black hair in his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in response to his dreams. I always wondered what he dreamt about. He had nightmares, too, that was clear; he’d wake up in a panic and clutch on to me, though he was a lot more experienced in calming himself down than I was—but nothing seemed to match the mornings where he seemed to be happily encased in a dream and he looked tranquil, calm; you wouldn’t believe that anyone who had been through the things Boris had would have any room in their dormant minds for pleasant dreams, but he did. What about, I didn’t know, but some strange feeling settled over my heart when I was watching him dream one early morning and he mumbled my name in his slumber in the middle of a sleepy sigh. Not _ Potter, _Theo. Just so that’s clear.

I’d get so caught up in looking at him sometimes I’d forget to pretend to be asleep when he’d show signs of waking up, features twitching, rubbing his lips together and then slowly letting his eyes open, a deep brown; but in the sun they would look so much lighter. He’d immediately smirk at me, (my head would always start to hurt from straining without my glasses) rake his hair subtly out of his eyes and say _ something on my face, Potter? _ in a throaty, raw voice—accent stronger, somehow. It always was in the mornings. Then I would respond with some variation of _ fuck you _and sometimes he would playfully punch me or kick me or other times he would tickle me or kiss me tenderly on my bare shoulder. It was just how things were—then we’d roll out of bed and continue our day like he hadn’t caught me staring, throw on each other’s clothes and smuggle one of Xandra’s vodka bottles out of the cupboard, along with whatever else we could find. 

One time, things went a little differently; one particular New Year’s Eve. It was turning two thousand and six, the year started on a Sunday, the sixth year of the twenty first century, the seventh year of the decade… it’s all rather self explanatory. New beginnings, that’s what they say, right? Resolutions. Changes you _ say _ you’re going to make. _ I’m going to stay sober. I’m going to go on a diet. I’m going to start a business. I’m not going to wallow in my grieving. I’m going to do things, bungee jumping, skydiving, win the lottery, have children, start a family, leave my unhappy marriage, travel the world, help the homeless, work on self acceptance, change the whole fucking world. _That’s the thing about the world though, right? It’s full of unkept promises, broken resolutions and wasted time. It’s fucked up, but we can’t help but live any other way, we live the lives we think we’re deserving of and all end up in the same place when it’s over, so does any of it truly matter? I suppose moments matter, and some of those moments are worth remembering; if you hold on to them the right way—and when you die you won’t feel so lonely. You have more things to dream about. 

We were still in bed, laying on our backs, staring at the lights in motion on the ceiling; sunlight bouncing off the pool outside and into my room, something that often helped me calm down if I was having a particularly awful day. 

Boris was the first one to speak that morning, holding his hands above his face, like he was examining them patiently. “Shit, Potter! I forgot what tonight is.”

“What?”

“That fucking—what do you call it? New years?”

“New Year's eve?”

“Yes! That is the one!”

I rolled my eyes. “I literally told you like _ last night _that my dad and Xandra were going out to a New Years party tonight did you not fucking listen—”

“Shut up, Potter. I don’t always listen to what you say. You are whiny, like little girl.” he let his arms flop down to his chest. “Besides, I think I was fucked up.”

“You’re _ always _fucked up,” I glanced at him, hoping he wouldn’t look at me. He tried to object, but I continued talking. “And I wasn’t even complaining about anything I literally just fucking told you we’d have the house to ourselves tonight.”

He frowned. “We have house to ourselves?”

“Jesus, are you _ still _ fucked up? That’s literally what I just said, idiot.” I rolled over and nudged his leg with my knee, and he did the same, squinting at me like an old man who couldn’t find his glasses. 

“Was just checking! Jesus, Potter, you need to have a drink. Have you had a drink?” he pushed his fingers through my hair out of my face, and put the back of his hand against my forehead like he was checking my temperature. 

I batted his hand away, feeling my hair flop back into place. “We haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.”

“So what!” he patted my cheek twice with the palm of his hand, his skin was cold—I frowned in reaction, unable to move away because I would end up rolling off the edge of the bed if I tried. “You are so… what do the Americans say? Ah, can’t remember. You are acting like you have a stick inside you.” 

I laughed at his confusion. “A stick up my butt?”

“No.”

“That’s literally the fucking saying—”

“No, don’t believe you. You are stupid.”

“_ You’re _ fucking stupid, Boris.”

He pretended to look brutally offended, holding his mouth open in surprise. “Potter, Potter. Always must be right, eh? Well, you are _ not _always right! You must realise this.” 

“I know I’m not always right, idiot.”

It was quiet for a few moments, I could hear my dad and Xandra having some kind of hushed argument a few rooms away; probably over the reservation they’d made for their night out—nothing unusual. Then, Popchyk hopped up from his bed of blankets that was on the ground and started to curl up by Boris’ chest, resting his head on his paws and letting his eyes close again. Boris ruffled his hair and talked nonsense to him in Russian before looking back up at me. I had been watching him the whole time, but it didn’t appear that he noticed. “Wait, you said… house to ourselves, huh?”

I sighed again. “Yeah, I don’t know why you’re fucking surprised.”

“Am not! Just checking.”

“Why?”

Then, he leaned in close to me, so much so I could feel his breath on my skin, and brought his voice down to a whisper. “Because I do not want poor Xandra to hear your screams when I fucking murder you—”

I snorted and shoved him back by his shoulders, careful not to hit Popchyk instead. “Fuck you!”

He broke out into a smile and laughed loudly. “Joking, Potter. Is called a joke. Or is that another thing you are too stupid to understand?”

“I’m not fucking stupid.”

His laughter subsided and he sighed, gazing at me in the philosophical expression he sometimes looked at me with. “I know, Potter. I know. You are smartest person I know, but you are not smart about how you deal with feelings.”

I scoffed, I could feel the heat on my back that was flooding through the window even though it was December. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Doesn’t fucking matter! You will figure it out eventually, but for now?” he rapped his knuckles on the side of my head. “You are stupid.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I kicked him in the knee again but he didn’t react, he only went back to fussing over Popchyk, picking him up, holding him at arm's length and bringing him back down only to pepper his face with kisses. My head was starting to ache. “Hey, can you—”

He plopped the dog on his chest and slung his arms around him, then turned to glance at me. “What? You want a kiss, Potter?”

I forced myself to sit up, nausea washing over me and making me feel dizzy. “What the fuck? No!”

“That is unfortunate. For you, I mean.”

“I was just going to ask you if you could pass me my fucking glasses. They’re on your side.” 

Why they were there, exactly, I didn’t know. 

It would be ignorant of me to act as though this particular event—the thing that occured that night—didn’t have significance in my life, because it did. Every time I thought about it I felt as though I was some sort of criminal taken into custody; stuck on a twenty-four hour hold that’s on a constant loop, never ending, never once asked if I need a break to process all of the information being thrown at me. _ Would you like a glass of water, Mr Decker? A bathroom break? A fist full of pills so you can just get it over with? _No, none of that. Just a harsh, chemical light shone into my face as white as a hospital wall, like something out of film noir, blinding me but also making me see the event in question as clear as day. Palms sweating, leg bouncing up and down uncontrollably, chewing at the inside of my cheek as if I could tear the skin right off, each tick of the clock getting louder and louder; setting off my tinnitus, a terrible blaring realisation. 

They interrogated me, the thoughts in my head; _ you kissed him back, didn’t you? _

The unfortunate truth, as it was, is that I did. 

The day passed as easily as days would back then, nothing particularly significant, mostly watching movies and Boris seeing how many tortilla chips he could fit in his mouth without spluttering them all over the kitchen floor; Popchyk jumping up and down in excitement when he would eventually fail—and, as disgusting as it was, cleaning up the remains—Boris hysterically howling with laughter and me shaking my head in disappointment at the life I seemed to have constructed for myself. A little unstable and mismatched, sure, but at least it was a life that I was used to; Boris was a constant that I needed and I doubt I would’ve got through the early years after the incident at the museum without him. Whatever happened I was going to end up dragged away to Las Vegas by my father, and had I not met Boris I was certain I would’ve completely spiralled alone and probably fallen off of the earth. Things were lighter with him around, and I had to be honest with myself and admit that fact. 

Xandra and my father had left in the early evening, the latter making some awful _ see you next year, kids! _joke that made me roll my eyes and close the door, I was eager to get them out of the house, I liked it when Boris and I were alone. The world made a lot more sense to me when it was just him and I, my dad and his girlfriend were like fictional characters to me; they didn’t belong in the universe I was existing in. Boris did, somehow, but the feeling that provided me with was oxymoronic—I was completely unsettled and comforted by it at the same time. 

“Not long left now, Potter! Look!” Boris poked at my side with his finger, trying to get a reaction out of me. I didn’t move, I don’t think I even blinked. “Then we are… what? Two thousand and something… I don’t know anymore. Is bullshit, why do Americans make such a big deal out of everything? Did you ever go there? The place with all the advertisements?” 

I sighed, keeping my eyes fixed on the twenty inch screen, images of New Yorkers swarming around Times Square. Large overcoats, beer in plastic cups, children on their parents’ shoulders with pink cheeks, eyes lit up from a towering coca-cola sign, the countdown to another year of unwanted existence. It was a prime spot for a disaster, I thought. It was all I could ever think about when it came to large gatherings like that. Every man, woman and child would most likely think nothing of it as they grabbed their knitted scarves and gloves and headed out of their apartments, or travelled from anywhere across the globe; but I could never go somewhere like that, without the crippling fear that something terrible may happen.

“Only once,” I shrugged. “A long time ago.” 

I could feel him looking at me, for a few long moments, and then he slipped out of my peripheral vision and laid down on his back on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling; his legs stretched out in front of him, a pair of my socks covering his feet, jeans frayed in unpredictable places. “You do not want to go there again?” 

“No,” I mumbled. “There’s too many people.” 

Even just looking at it through a screen was enough to make my chest feel tight, like a metal vice from workshop class tightening around the walls I had built up around my heart. The dust filling my lungs, making me lose my breath and choke until I was nothing but ashes and rubble. I frequently had nightmares (I still do, we all do), they don’t at all seem like nightmares when they begin. I would be doing particularly ordinary things: reading, writing, walking to catch a bus that would never arrive—but then I’d look down at my hands and see my fingertips turning to stone, crumbling under some invisible force. All I could ever do was stare and watch the grey travel up my arms, and I would have to accept the idea that it was going to kill me. Then, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I was going to die.

I shouldn’t have made it out of room thirty-two, but somehow—I did. I was the only one. The nightmares serve as constant, bitter reminders that I was not just _ the kid who got lucky, _and one day, everything was going to catch up with me. I had to accept that the event at the museum was eventually going to kill me, even if it was years in the future. My fate had been sealed, like the last page of a book written before the rest of the story had even begun. 

Boris swung his hand out in an expressive gesture, and it brushed against my arm. “You do not like crowds, because of—?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t need to explain myself, I’d told him before. He wouldn’t make me say anything I didn’t want to talk about, and he always seemed to know how to separate those moments into well thought out categories despite my immediate assumption—when we first met—that he was someone who didn’t quite pay attention to minuscule _ human _things like body language or the tone of someone’s voice.

Unfairly, I had assumed that he would not get the hint when I didn’t want to talk about something; I don’t know why, he just came across as one of those people—but in quiet moments during conversations like these I would catch him looking at me thoughtfully, almost as if he was making a mental note of my every move, the way I reacted to certain things. Maybe he had brought those things up to test the waters, just to see how I would respond. By that point, I was sure he had completely studied me—although, most things were perfectly self explanatory or even common sense: _ Potter likes talking about video games, Potter doesn’t like talking about his mother’s death. _

I believe it went beyond that, though. He knew me well. Better than anyone. Perhaps better than I even knew myself at that point in my existence, he’d point out things that I didn’t quite realise, that were perfectly and utterly true. He’d catch me off guard at unforeseen moments and tell me what I would mumble in my sleep, pressed against his bare chest having just slipped back into bittersweet sedation after he’d pulled me back down into the covers, post-nightmare, post-flashback. I’d ask him to pull me closer, apparently, although I have no recollection of ever saying such a thing—it must’ve worked, though, because I would drift back to sleep and the walls of my dreams would be unpainted for once; allowing me to slip into an empty expanse of nothingness. The nights where I wouldn’t dream at all were the easiest, and those nights were the nights I spent clutching Boris—not even wanting to entertain the idea of letting him go. 

“No matter,” he shrugged. I considered laying down beside him, but I didn't. “We have our own party! Just you and me, eh?”

I smiled, just a little bit. I couldn’t help it. Was this how it was always going to be? Boris and I, against the world? It sure felt like it, we had created our own universe—this idea reminded me of something my mother once said. _ The centre of my earth is you. _She told me that one day I would find someone who made me feel like no one else on the planet mattered during the moments we shared together, and that we would create our own universe—we wouldn’t be separate planets, orbiting but never meeting—we would be clusters of stars in the same galaxy colliding and existing with each other. 

Her words would echo in my head sometimes when Boris and I were alone, and I felt an uneasy lump rising in my chest. I didn’t want it to be him. How could it be him? Surely, in the long run, Boris would only be a chapter in my story—he wouldn’t be a main character, right? But as time went on, as much as it scared me, I had to realise that he was significant. I didn’t realise it then, but he was a driving force—he was gravity. I could not continue to exist without him.

Despite his bad influence on me—which, I must remind you, was as equally my fault as it was his, never once forced me to do anything; all my own decisions, clouded judgement from my state of trauma, sure, but they were my own all the same—I very well would have succeeded in killing myself if it weren’t for him. Well, maybe not succeeded but sustained unfixable injuries. I wanted to be dead. There was no denying that, but when he would appear back into my field of vision I would laugh, and I’d smile—because none of it was quite real. I was only playing a game, in whatever state I was in, which was incredibly foolish of me and nothing short of disturbing. I knew how much it scared him, and I think that very realisation is what made me accept that he was the other half of my universe, and whenever I could, I would have to prevent him from losing the other half of his. He needed me as much as I needed him. 

“Just you and me,” I repeated, then looked at the dog who was sleeping on the arm of the sofa behind us, easily mistaken for a pillow with his eyes closed. “And Popper.”

Then, Boris grabbed my wrist from where it was supporting my weight as I leant back on my hands. I turned to look at him, his hair fully out of his face exposing every inch of skin and every angle illuminated perfectly by the lamp in the corner of the room and the flickering lights from the television—each scar where it had always been and each bruise fading according to their different timelines. He wasn’t looking at me, he had his eyes closed; he pursed his lips. His eyelashes were thick and dark. “Stop thinking, Potter.”

I frowned, confused, his fingertips felt like ice against my skin. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “You are thinking too much. Give yourself break.” 

He could read me as easily as his Russian language novels, and could analyse me as easily as S.O.S Iceberg on his seventh watch.

“That’s like asking me to stop breathing.” I scoffed. He didn’t let go of my wrist, I looked at his nimble fingers. 

“You can think, yes,” he said. “Am not asking you to empty your head, only asking you lighten up. Would give you something, but… nothing on me. There is vodka, though, if you want.” 

I considered his offer, I always do. I’d usually say yes, but something was telling me I needed a break. My liver needed a break, not that I’d usually give a shit—but in the back of my brain, I heard my mother saying _ no. _“I’m good.” 

“No?” he said, surprised. He looked at me now, frowning. “Well, alright. Just remember, you will have no excuses for doing anything stupid.”

I thought nothing of his words at the time, although they would come back to torment me later on. “I’m not gonna do anything stupid, Boris.”

I absolutely despised the fact that I was the human embodiment of a foreshadow. 

Then, a few minutes of watching the television passed, and before we knew it; it was eleven fifty-nine.

“One minute… Potter!” Boris nudged me with his shoulder, I felt a wave of chills ripple down my spine like a cloud of smoke curing in the air having just escaped from his own lips that I often see as I turn to glance at him when we lay beside each other on my bed, by the pool, on the floor at the playground. I didn’t know why I was so aware of it then, but I felt it all over my body, like a wake up call—I’d been dead for too long, he was starting to make me feel alive. “Pass remote! Want to turn it up!”

“But you said you thought it was stupid.” I sighed heavily, feeling a weight on my chest concerning the idea of moving into a new year. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t deserve another year on earth, let alone another second—but for the sheer opportunity of being there with Boris beside me, it didn’t seem like such a painful concept. 

He leant over my lap, trying to reach for the remote that was beside me—but it was just out of the way, I made no effort to help him. “Give me a break, just want to hear what the man is saying! Fucking pass it, _ ty blyad—” _

I held in a laugh, somewhere it tickled at my throat. I don’t know why, I was completely sober, but Boris leaning over me like that and not being able to quite grasp the remote with the countdown clock leaving him with less and less time was enough to make me smirk. “No.” 

“Fuck! Move, idiot.” his chest was against my legs. He could’ve easily stood up and walked around me. 

“Fuck you.” 

Before I knew it, he’d swung his leg over; kneeling either side of me, grabbing my wrists to pin me down to the floor. I let out some sort of shriek or strangled variation of laughter before pushing back and rolling over, trying to swing at him when I had an advantage. We were like two characters in a movie, grappling and laughing and pulling at each other in black and white—but somehow it was as clear as day and I could see colours that didn’t even exist. His features washed by my vision in a split second and I could hear his laughs, and see his smile, his hair falling in his face and slender limbs everywhere, making me suck in a breath whenever he came into contact with my bare skin. 

His fingers touched my stomach where my shirt had ridden up for a dissipitating moment, and I laughed, trying to wriggle free. Our fingers interlocked, and all I could hear was harsh breaths and staggered laughs and the countdown from the television in the background.

_ Thirty-nine, thirty-eight… _

“Fucking get _ off _me, asshole!” I laughed, he didn’t stop—instead letting go of one of my hands to poke at my side causing me to squirm and kick out.

He laughed loudly at my reaction, but when I saw an opportunity, I kicked at his ribs and we rolled over; I was hovering over him. I was overly aware of the sound of his breaths, I could feel it on my skin from time to time—warm air, chilled fingers, not a single whiff of vodka or weed or _ anything _ . We were sober, completely. There was _ no _fucking excuse for what eventually happened, and not a day went by where I didn’t think of it. 

_ Twenty-four, twenty three… _

“Nyah, Potter! You’re making me miss the countdown!”

“You started it!”

Then, we paused, looking at each other—watching, breathing. His eyes were lonely, I think they always looked lonely. He never acted as such, always came across to others as though he wasn’t as quite alone as he actually was. He had me, I had him. We had each other. There were others, sure, but we both knew that they weren’t the same and that they would never be the same even if they attempted to. At that point in life I don’t believe I had ever seen Boris cry, perhaps he did and it was something I didn’t remember; but I swear, I _ swear _to you, his eyes looked so sad and lonely and glassed over with the burden of his past and maybe even his present, I don’t know, that for a second I thought he was going to burst into tears. Of course, he didn’t. He just looked at me fondly, and I felt the walls around my heart crumbling, disintegrating into a dust that you can’t get rid of—sticking to your clothes and hair and body for the rest of your life. 

_ Seventeen, sixteen… _

The moment, whatever it was… was briefly broken when Boris hooked his legs around my waist; I felt myself widen my eyes in surprise, but other than that I didn’t react. He rolled me back over so my back was flat on the floor and he was leaning over me again, practically sat on top of me. He was holding me down, there was nowhere I could go—I suppose I very well could’ve tried, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t. An unknown force willed me to let whatever was going on continue, feeling my chest rise and fall as I caught my breath. I just looked up at every inch of his face over and over trying to memorise it because I had an awful feeling that one day I would have to let him go and days would exist where the world would not feel like it was inhabited only by the two of us.

_ Thirteen, twelve… _

Had he always looked so beautiful?

_ Eleven, ten, nine… _

His face was close to mine, a life changing event was right before me and I wasn’t even aware of it. I wanted to reach up and brush his hair out of his face. “If you don’t do it,” he said, I felt him squeeze my hand. “I will.”

I knew exactly what he was talking about, yet I still frowned in confusion, my heart seconds away from burning through the carpet where I was lying. “What the fuck are you talking about—”

_ Two, one... _

Then, simply put, he leaned down and kissed me like it was his only purpose in his life. 

And, eventually—I started to kiss him back like it was the only purpose in mine. 

When I was younger I used to have an irrational fear that whilst I slept in my comfortable, warm bed in our New York apartment—with my mother in the next room—that someone would break in and kill me in my sleep. It was a very strange fear to have and a very peculiar thing to have anxiety about, I suppose the idea was planted into my head from the documentaries my mother used to leave playing on the television sometimes; true crime, criminal investigations, morbid retellings of murders in graphic detail. They would make me so overwhelmingly anxious, but I could not stop watching them, my eyes fixed to the screen like a deer caught in headlights—then, of course, my mother would say _ oh, Theo… you shouldn’t watch that kind of stuff… _but then she’d have to sit down and explain to me what was actually happening because I wanted to know, and she would always be honest with me if I was ever curious about something. 

She’d answer whatever questions I asked in the most appropriate terms, and it helped me to understand the world a bit better—little by little—but during the night I still held my covers up to my nose and stared at my door until my eyes hurt. By that point in Vegas, or _ after _she was gone, I wasn’t afraid of that anymore; despite her not being there to justify it. Because, truthfully, if someone were to break in and kill me in my sleep now, I would’ve let them. 

However, _after _I had come to discover a different fear all together. What I was trying to understand at this particular time in my life, and what I wish I could’ve asked her, is that how did kissing a _boy_… kissing my _best friend _(that’s what he was, right? My best friend?) make me forget about my desire to die, but still give me that unsettling balloon of anxiety in my throat all at the same time? How did pit feel so right, but so unbearably wrong? How did it make my heart race, but slow it right down to a peaceful rhythm? How did it, can I ask, give me the escape I needed, but open a floodgate in my mind filled with questions I didn’t want to answer? 

It wasn’t okay that I kissed him back, I kissed him back a lot. I just needed my mother to explain it, to justify it—to make it make sense to me, sit me down on the carpet in front of the television and tell me what I was feeling was some sort of sick joke or even a fucked up dream—but I knew she wouldn’t. She’d make me understand, she’d make me get over my fear, to stop hiding behind my covers and staring at that closed door; but I wasn’t scared of someone breaking in, I was scared of stepping out—and I realised I would never do that without her holding my hand. 

I didn’t like to think back on this particular memory in detail but it was one of my most vivid. There were fireworks being broadcasted on the television, I don’t know how long we had already been in the new year; seconds? Minutes? It didn’t matter. I felt like I was floating, on a high I would never come down from, addicted to a drug from the very first hit—hands everywhere, lips on skin, pulling him closer to me, rolling around on the floor with a strong sense of intimacy rather than our usual play fighting. He was gentle, like a renaissance artist steadying their hands for each minuscule brushstroke making the entire artwork come to life with each touch, each kiss—creating a memory that people would honour for centuries even after their death. My heart had shattered and bled through my chest and fixed itself up again within a matter of seconds. He kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me… and I kissed him back, over and over—and all I could taste was sugar. Sweet, sweet sugar. I kissed him until it was gone, and all I could feel were his lips on mine, getting softer by the second. 

I felt him smile and I couldn’t help but return the gesture, thinking nothing of what it actually meant at the time. Proof, evidence; true and solid. This was making the both of us feel happy. None of it felt real, I felt as though I was watching from afar but I also felt so much like _ myself _ at the same time which is what made me feel undeniably worse afterwards—but _ after _ didn’t matter then. Nothing else mattered but him. All I could hear were the sounds of our kisses and each quiet giggle he’d let out against my lips whenever he’d feel my smile and each and every one of his breaths in between. An urge to say something to him clawed at my throat but I didn’t quite understand it yet, so I ignored it, taking in a lungful of air when his lips left mine and began to travel across my cheek and to my jaw.

I felt wanted, I felt taken care of… I felt loved. Each time I took a staggered breath he would gently squeeze my hand, and then he’d let go and hold onto my waist, cold fingers sliding slightly under my shirt. At some point, he held my face and carefully removed my glasses, placing them on the floor beside us. I didn’t want to pull away and open my eyes because then I would have to look at him, and I knew I would be looking at him differently and I would never stop looking at him differently. He would be so much more beautiful than I had ever imagined, his dark eyes that had seen so much but were looking at _ me. _His pale, porcelain skin and his hand painted freckles and the angles of his face and each scar and each fading bruise and his dark hair falling in his eyes and his smile at me when he didn’t think I could see him and the way he talked like a philosopher but didn’t believe it and the way he would sing me to sleep when I was afraid of the closed door and the way he was opening it. Just a crack, and within one more second, one more moment—he’d be kicking it right open. 

That’s when I pushed him away. 

It happened too fast for me to register, he was still hovering over me, and all of a sudden a few fireworks went off in the distance, _ real _ fireworks—which was strange because we were supposedly the only people for miles. It sounded like the explosion all over again, and my tinnitus kicked in, and my ears were blaring, and Boris was kissing my neck, taking no notice; my skin pleasantly burning under his lips—but then I couldn’t breathe anymore, the balloon in my chest had inflated again, blocking my airways, and I was suffocating. I pushed him off of me by his shoulders, and he fell back into a sitting position on the floor in front of me. I hurriedly sat up, breathing heavily, on the verge of a panic attack—the ghostly memory of his lips still all over my own and all over my skin. I felt like I was burning, or freezing, or dying. Maybe all three. I couldn’t bear to look at him. He was frowning at me, I knew he was; sitting there looking as disappointed as ever, breathless and pink cheeked, lips red from what _ I _had done. 

I put my head in my hands. The television was still on but I couldn’t hear it. 

“Potter, I—”

I felt like I was going to pass out when I heard his voice again, his familiar accent ringing in my ears. I had the urge to reach up and touch my lips. They were tingling, like all the blood had rushed to them, making them warm. This was it. This is what was going to kill me.

“Theo…” his voice was quiet, like if he spoke too loud it would break me. “Potter, please say something…”

I was suffocating on the inside, my lungs had failed me—I thought I was going to burst into uncontrollable staggered breaths; but I was completely still, like I had already died. Completely frozen in place, I made no sound, I don’t think I even blinked. I wanted to grip on to something, but he was the closest to me and I didn’t want to reach out—it felt like giving in, giving up. I had spent so long building those carefully crafted walls around my heart brick by brick and now they had just completely collapsed, I could feel my heartbeat in my throat and chills down my spine and every inch of lingering warmth where he had touched my skin. He was still all over me in memory even though he was sitting a few feet away, looking like he had just been shot in the heart with an arrow. It wouldn’t have surprised me if blood started to trickle out of his mouth into a red stain on the carpet. 

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Not because I regretted it, but because I missed it, and I wanted him to kiss me again. 

But I knew all too well that I couldn’t let that happen. 

He was looking at me but I wanted him to look away. I prayed that I’d wake up and this whole thing would be some sort of dream, some sort of hallucination. All I could think was that I was sober. I had already let something happen. I had already changed the course of my life, to some extent, without even realising it.

I didn’t know what to say. 

“Look, I—” Boris started, his voice echoing in my head, bouncing around in my brain like the sound of one of my mother’s old records that had been scratched after not being in the correct sleeve for years, collecting dust. 

When I did talk, my words felt choked out; as if they had all got stuck in my throat and I had to grapple at the edges of my unresponsive brain to find them. “Just—” I bit my bottom lip, hoping it would erase the sensory memories that had been left there. It didn’t. “Don’t.”

I heard him sigh. I had my gaze firmly fixed on the carpet, motionless. I wondered, if I thought hard enough, I’d be able to sink through the floor. “Don’t _ what?” _

“Just _ don’t _say anything, Boris. Please.”

My voice cracked when I spoke, and I knew all too well it sounded as though I was about to cry. I felt my eyes water so much they started to burn, but I held back _ so _hard I felt my throat closing up, and I had to swallow and close my eyes, before letting out a shaky breath—trying to find my center of gravity; which was hard, because for so long, it had been Boris himself. 

He had his thin arms crossed over his chest—he was scared—of what, I didn’t know. But I knew the meanings behind his gestures well enough. “Then what, Potter? What do you want me to do?”

“Boris, I can’t… I—” I was still struggling to find words. I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to disappear and forget everything. “Please I just— I need to be alone.”

He scoffed, uttering something harsh in Ukrainian under his breath which made me flinch in the turbulent and fragile state I was in. “You want me to leave? You’re asking me to fucking leave?” He didn’t sound angry, more upset than anything. I felt awful. I felt so _ fucking _awful. Not for myself, at that particular moment, but for him. I should not have done what I did, because I was all too aware I’d hurt him—and I let it happen anyway.

Someone else was speaking, not me. “I didn’t say that!”

“Tell me, then! For once in your fucking life, be honest with me.”

I felt like I was going to throw up. “I can’t do this, please just—”

Popchyk raised his head in surprise when Boris’ voice went up a few levels. “Can’t do _ what, _huh? Can’t tell the fucking truth?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Oh, that’s right! _ Stupid _ Boris, forget it! Is always my fault! All the fucking time!”—Then, clearly imitating me— _ “Is you, not me! _ Ah, so very sorry, Potter. Truly. It is honestly sad, pretty fucking sad to see you be so blind. Yes, I know you think it. You never say anything but I _ know _what you think. You always think is my fault. To make you feel better about yourself, huh? I dare you, Potter, to tell me I am wrong! Because—because, deep down you know, with every part of you, that I am not.”

I felt my heart sink. The television had cut out and switched itself of, it did that sometimes—the connection wasn’t the best considering how far out the house was—and I wanted to scream. It was too quiet when he stopped yelling, his words were crashing around in my head like a freight train; never stopping to let me understand them. I was left speechless, he was breathing heavily, like what he had said was something that had been playing on his mind for weeks or _ months, _even—and saying them out loud had surprised even him, it was as though he didn’t have control of his body, and he threw out all of the unspoken words at me like sharp rocks from the bottom of a river, cutting me deep, hot blood trickling down over my face mixing with dirty water—infecting me, killing me. 

I really wanted someone to barge through the door and knock me out, spontaneously—so I wouldn’t have to think anymore. 

_ I know what you think. _

“I told you, didn’t I? No excuse this time. You are sober. Completely. And, look! You can’t even tell me I’m wrong, because you know I’m right. Is killing me, Potter, you know that? It kills me every time we wake up and you act like nothing ever happened! Because I—” he was about to say something else, but he stopped, looking as though he decided it was a step too far. The whole thing was a step too far, too much information at once; and the ringing in my head wouldn’t stop, getting louder and louder by the second. I couldn’t fathom that it bothered him as much as it bothered me. He was holding himself so tight I thought he was going to suffocate. 

_ It kills me. _

It fucking kills me, too.

“Boris—” I looked at him, then, everything slightly blurred; I didn’t have the strength to retrieve my glasses from the floor. His eyes were glazed over with tears, he gripped at the fabric of his shirt like he wanted to tear right through it. He closed his eyes slowly for a few moments and took a breath, I let my gaze linger on his lips—all too aware of where they had been a mere few minutes before; on me. Not for the first time, he knew that, I knew that; but it was the first time we had properly kissed, I was certain—I couldn’t figure out if he was implying otherwise, or if he was referencing the _ other _ things. Either way, this was the first time we had ever spoken about anything like this; well, the first time he had said anything to me about it, because I was still rendered speechless, not even allowing myself to slump against the sofa behind me—frozen like a marble statue. 

He looked at me for a long moment, his gaze burning through my skin.“It wasn’t just me.”

“What?”

“You kissed me back.”

It was true. I did.

Hearing him say it aloud had caused a whole new reality to come crashing down on me; were things ever going to be the same? Had I honestly fucked things up so bad they were beyond repair? At the time I couldn’t tell, Boris was the sort of person to _ say _ he’d hold a grudge against someone but then forget anything ever happened three seconds later—or maybe that was just with me, I didn’t know. I always thought he didn’t care. I didn’t think it meant anything to him. I just had absolutely no idea how we were going to go on knowing we’d broken one of our rules; I say _ one of, _ because I’d begun to construct some other terrifying ideas in my head, something I could never say to him and that I would _ never _ want to hear him say to me. It would make things even more real than they already were, as if the air between us wasn’t polluted enough already—I suppose _ polluted _isn’t the right word; the air (when I was with Boris) was always crystal clear—the way he made me feel is what filled my brain with heavy, black smoke; because I wasn’t supposed to feel the way that I did. I was supposed to be the version of myself my mother always knew for the rest of my existence, and if she could never know, then I would never be okay with it.

But I was really _ fucking _ struggling to fathom how I could continue to live my life knowing what kissing Boris felt like and not letting myself do it ever again. 

Doing so would mean moving on and being a different person—and I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve to feel comfortable in my own skin after what I did.

I was making excuses. It was the person I always had been—I knew it, my mother probably knew it—but I was desperate, doing anything to keep myself locked up in bittersweet denial.

I never told her, so it was never real; and she was dead, so I could never tell her—and it would never, ever be real. 

I took a deep breath after leaving the two of us in silence for an unbearable amount of time. “I don’t want to talk about this.” 

His voice went softer for a moment.“Well now we are talking about it.”

“No we are _ not. _”

“We are! What the fuck else are we doing, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Boris. I don’t know.” 

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean _ what?” _

“Did you mean it when you kissed me back?”

“I—” I did mean it. I meant it more than anything.

But, as always, the words got stuck in my throat. 

“That’s what I thought.”

I wanted to just kiss him again, so fucking badly; but instead I looked at the carpet, hot tears on the verge of spilling out of my eyes, the numbness wearing off, the emotional affect settling in. I needed to get away, even if it killed me to see the look on his face as I disappeared. With all the strength I could gather, which wasn’t a lot, I pushed myself up from the floor; my legs felt weak under my weight, like I would buckle and fall at any moment—but I took a breath and squeezed my eyes shut for a second, blinking my tears away. I was aware he was watching my every move, but I couldn’t look at him. I knew it would break me. 

“Where are you going?”

He said it quietly, almost to himself; I had to stop in my tracks so my footsteps wouldn’t overpower his voice. I continued looking at the stairs that would lead to my escape. “To bed.”

“You want me to leave you alone, then? Is that what you want? Because, _ fuck… _I can’t be at home right now. My dad, he—” 

I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t fucking bear to hurt him anymore than I already had.

“Just…” I sighed, digging my nails into the skin on the palm of my hand. I wanted it to hurt. “Stay on the sofa.”

I managed to pull myself halfway up the stairs to our room, I didn’t hear Boris move at all—and if I turned around I knew I’d see him sat, defeated, on the floor in the middle of the carpet. 

Then, just before I reached the top, I heard him mutter under his breath: “Happy _ fucking _new year.” 

* * *

That night, I had one of the worst nightmares I think I have ever had in my entire life. I couldn’t get to sleep for a long while, I kept tossing and turning trying to find a comfortable position over and over whilst repeatedly reaching out for a warmth that simply wasn’t there—I couldn’t complain, I told him to stay downstairs. I told him I wanted to be alone, and I regretted it bitterly when I ended up laying awake for god knows how fucking long, staring at the ceiling; no reflections, the pool light was switched off, and I was in darkness trying my best to breathe. Thousands of afterthoughts and touches prickled at every inch of my skin and I could think of nothing else, only how I felt—how it all felt when it was happening—and how it was pushing me to the brink of losing my mind all together. 

I wanted a drink, but I would’ve had to have gone downstairs for that.

Suddenly, I was in some sort of venue; chairs aligned for unknown guests and walls adorned with intricate, and delicate decorations, cascading flowers and draperies in cream and icy pale blue. I was watching, somewhere. I was watching myself, but it wasn’t _ me— _well, it was me, but I was older. I couldn’t make out any of my changed features or anything particularly distinctive, but I was there; I had grown and I was somehow still alive, standing there at an altar, alone, dressed in a pristine suit; all crisp and freshly ironed. My shoes were new and shining, a silver watch hooked around my wrist (always running out of time) and my tie was selected to match someone else, a person I sensed to be the one to walk into the room next, and the person who would stand opposite me and delicately take my hand into their own.

Watching, always watching, never in my own body—I was filled with an undeniable sense of dread that made me feel sick to my stomach. This wasn’t supposed to happen, I don’t know why, but something was telling me it was all wrong. I had to stop it, I had to run up to my future self and grab his wrist and drag him away, but I couldn’t move. There were guests, scattered amongst the mostly empty chairs. A few of the Barbours, all as young as I remembered seeing them last: Andy, in his blue pyjamas. Platt, Toddy, and Mrs Barbour. No sign of Mr Barbour or Kitsey. Tom Cable was there, in school uniform, his feet clad in muddy shoes slung over the chair in front of him, ruining the white fabric. There were some people I didn’t know, but they were people I remembered seeing on the street, on the subway—the kind of people I would wonder about and what their lives entailed. Hobie was there, along with Pippa, and even Welty, who still had blood from his open wound trickling down his forehead. 

I was getting married, in this dream, and if I knew one thing—I wasn’t happy about it. 

Then, I was looking through my own eyes. As my older self, and when I looked down, I could see myself holding a delicate, pale feminine hand; a silver ring freshly slipped onto the correct finger. I wasn’t in control, the deed had been done. When I looked up, I couldn’t see _ her _face, as if vision would not allow me to see my own sealed fate. It was a blur. I had no idea who it was and I had just signed my life away with shaky vows I could not stop escaping from my lungs. It was almost over. I was gripping her hand so hard I felt her delicate bones start to crack and crimson liquid seeped through my fingers and she didn’t even flinch. Ears ringing, head pounding, and then everything stopped. 

I heard the door at the end of the aisle close, and I turned my head. I saw Boris. No younger, no older than he was during the Vegas days. He was as clear as day, looking at me like he was saying _ I’m so, so fucking sorry, Potter… _he looked so sad, and so lonely, slowly crossing his arms over his chest. I wanted to reach out to him, but I was still stuck in place. 

Then, I saw my mother. 

She was standing next to him in her soft white coat, dark hair falling over her shoulders looking exactly as she did the last time I ever saw her. She smiled encouragingly at me, but it was all so sad—she was disappointed in where I had ended up, because she _ knew. _She knew where my true soul was laying, she knew where I’d shoved it and hidden it and wrapped it up like the fucking painting. Boris looked up at her, and everything felt strange; seeing them both together didn’t make any sense, yet it made sense more than anything ever had in my entire life—especially when they looked fondly at each other and she put a warm, motherly arm around his shoulders, the kind of sense of security I was all too familiar with and missed greatly. 

I had just about managed to let myself smile at this sight, and that’s when everything (quite literally) came crashing down. 

The building had began to crumble, and everyone had vanished apart from Boris and my mother. They didn’t notice everything falling apart around them, but I was suffocating in it—my lungs filling with the very same dust from that day. I couldn’t save myself, I couldn’t save either of them. We were all lost. Clouds of grey dust swarmed around me and I couldn’t breathe, everything crumbling, disintegrating. I was the source. I was the cause. I was the one who broke everything. 

I always fucking break everything.

I woke up with a loud gasp, his name tumbled off of the edge of my tongue in a scream and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. “Boris!”

I’d sat up in bed, practically throwing myself up, my chest rising and falling erratically in the midst of an unbearable panic. Reality washed over me and I felt relieved that my nightmare wasn’t true, I was sweating—I felt it dripping down my neck, and I threw the covers off, but then I was cold, shaking. I started clawing at my skin with my nails as if it would make the pain go away. 

I could barely speak. I hoped he could hear me from downstairs. I hoped to god, because I was afraid I was going to die. I didn’t care. I just needed him. “Boris! Please, p-please tell me you’re still here—” 

Then, thankfully, I heard footsteps clambering up the stairs—not loud enough to be my fathers and not slow enough to be Xandra’s (they weren’t home, anyway)—and, soon enough, Boris pushed himself through the door, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. Droopy eyes widened when they saw me, and he crawled up next to me, pulling me into his arms. I was laying between his legs and he held me securely against his chest, and instead of hugging himself, he hugged me, as much as he could without crushing my lungs; rubbing his hands over my skin. Fragments of memories came back, but they didn’t make me feel so bad anymore. I felt okay. I let him take care of me. 

He gently brushed my hair out of my face, looking at me from the side, his breath and words comforting in my ear. “Hey, hey. Shh. Come here, you are okay. It’s me.”

When I spoke I sounded like I was going to cry, voice cracking. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I would never, Potter. What are you—” I felt the vibrations of his voice against my back. It helped me calm down when I didn’t have the light to keep me grounded. 

My nightmare was freshly playing in my head, over and over. “Y-you just— the walls fell and— you were gone. Just like—”

He rubbed my arms again, up and down, and then held onto my hand, the way he did before he kissed me. “Shh, don’t talk. Just breathe. Breathe, Potter. Nice and slow, come on…”—and when my breathing slowed—“There you go.”

“I-I thought—” I swallowed after taking a large gulp of air. “I thought you were dead.”

He’d buried his head into my neck, and I could feel his hair against my skin. “Well, am not! Right here, see? Feel my heart, is beating. I’m alive. I promise.” 

He was right. He was alive, we were close enough that I could feel his heart beating against my back, a reassuring rhythm. I begged my erratic heart to slow to the pace of his own.

I felt so awful, so awful for what I did to him. In the nightmare, in real life. 

“I’m so _ sorry, _Boris. I—”

He kissed my shoulder softly, and I let out a calm sigh; releasing not all of my worries, but a good amount of them. I worried too much. I worried I would fuck up my future, constantly. I wasn’t sure I even wanted one. I worried I’d ruined everything between us, but Boris was still there, despite everything—caressing my skin and making me understand that I was alive. 

“Shh, what did I say? Breathe now, talk later.” 

So that’s what we did.

Not before I asked him again, with a heavy heart, to never leave me—and not after he promised he wouldn’t ever dream of it.


	2. boris - new year's eve, 2016

** _Time goes by_ **

** _And the snow is drifting_ **

** _Slowly in the sky_ **

** _Cold, cold night_ **

** _As you lie beside me_ **

** _I can hear your heartbeat_ **

It was by slamming the door of the car that I suddenly felt anguish in my stomach, before reaching the hollow of my throat, which made me stop breathing for a few seconds—it was the one that twists the body, shakes the hands, makes the eyes and mouth go dry, slows down time, and lets cigarette smoke mingle with the gray clouds of the night.

The cold attacked my hollow cheeks, and my eyes were blinded by the bloody hue that sprang from the streetlights, creating colored shadows on the facades of the houses. However, the milky fog, surrounding these rays of blinding reddish light, suited this sad street—_sad, _ like the smile Myriam gave me when she joined me on the hilly sidewalk. I felt my nose tingling because of what I had just taken in the car, and I still had a taste of the old vodka I had consumed a few hours ago, in one of the hidden and shabby bars of New York, with a heavy heart, hesitating to come here.

But there I was—torn between feeling excitement and paralyzing fear. Everything already seemed too familiar. The same chills, the same cold drafts on my neck, the same pins and needles in my arms after lying in an uncomfortable position on the hard, cold edge of a pool for over an hour—it was taking me to my head, giving me a sudden uncontrolled dizinesses. But, being here made my heart beat a little faster than usual. My hands were sweating and I was playing with my hair at the hollow of my neck, nervous, twisting curly locks around my little finger. 

Shoe crunch, an abandoned newspaper dancing with the wind. Some snowflakes falling on my pale hand. It was around 11:20 pm.

I snorted loudly as I heard shouts from the house I was standing in front of, as if someone important had entered one of the rooms. Sounds of _ Oh!_’s and _ Ah_!’s pierced the windows, decorated with yellow lanterns. The house in question was simple, sticking perfectly with the suburbs of New York, with a chimney covered in a light gray dust. It was sad, a little too much. When my eyes had finished wandering around the house and its dull brick palisade, it was the ** _Decker-Barbour_ ** label adorning the mailbox that caught my attention—and turned my stomach upside down at the same time. The black ink had run a little, Decker's _ D _ was badly written and it made me scratch my lips, irritated, while squinting my eyes to avoid being dazzled by the lights of the building. Then, the soft touch of Myriam's chin landing gently on my shoulder, serving as a distraction, avoided, well, that I look a little too long.

_ Why_? I didn’t really know. Reality had hit me so hard that I had to close my eyes for a few seconds, before mechanically pulling a pack of Lucky Strikes out of my black coat, melting into the black mass of the night, but still leaving the thumb wheel of my lighter to shine under the glare of the lamps coming from the house. Playing with the cigarette in the hollow of my lips, I felt Myriam patting me on the back, while swinging her bone cheek against my shoulder. I made a little laugh, before I turned to face her, and her shining black eyes on me immediately acted like a balm on my heart. She played with her silver rings, her blue tattoo on her wrist was glowing, and her hair was falling softly on her shoulders.

"Borya…"

"What? I'm fine. Very good actually, _ look—_" I smiled, letting my cigarette run between my teeth. "Huh huh! _ Perfect._"

She laughed, scratching her nose. She still had some white powder on her fingers but I decided not to say anything.

"You're unbelievable. _ Durny_."

"You should come..." She rolled her eyes. "...Come on! Fuck it, Myriam, it's a _ party_."

"You know very well that I have to meet Sophie."

"That French girl? _ Znovu_? Bring her here! Yes _ here_! I'm sure it will be fine."

"He invited you, Borya. _ You_."

I looked down and rubbed my shoe against a bump of tar that had been playing with my heel for a few minutes. I took out my phone, felt Myriam's heavy look, and ignored the irregular sniffles coming out loudly from her mouth. The lampposts lit up a whirlwind of flakes falling slowly, in rhythm, like a piano melody.

She was right. I had received a message one morning in December—I was coming out of the shower, the weed was making me dizzy and the windows, overlooking a miserable street in Antwerp, were closed: making the room less and less breathable. I was sitting on the bed, my phone lying in my hand—stunned, I had put on a random shirt and full of holes, trousers, and had gone to the travel agency, hair in my eyes, chapped lips, half a heart.

_ Hey. You should come to the New Year’s party Kitsey organized. She told me that I could invite some people. You're the only one I’ve contacted. Here's the address. I'll understand if you have other plans_.

I was looking at the message he had sent me again, the smoke from my cigarette blurring my vision. _ You're the only one_. I turned off my phone suddenly, shaking my head.

"I still can not believe you did _ not _answer him." said Myriam, swaying on her patent leather boots.

"He left one morning without warning me and without even leaving a note or shit. I don’t owe him anything."

"But…"

"I thought he went to— Again… _ Fuck_, Myriam," I said in a cold tone, squeezing my phone in my pocket brutally.

"Borya."

"But what am I doing here?" I said, cutting her off. "Honestly— I'm going to leave. Can I meet... Sophia? _ No _Sophie! C’mon. Let's go."

Myriam raised her eyebrows and patted my chest with her fine fingers and a mischievous look.

"You stay. I don’t."

I extinguished my cigarette, then rubbed my eyes. "Yeah. Yeah okay."

"Good. You’re here because you wanted to come, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah."

When I looked up I saw her, still with that smile, as resplendent as the moonlight during an insomniac’s marvelous and terrifying night.

"Thank you."

"Borya... I have to go there. You have my number, anyway, okay? Good... Good luck."

I didn’t answer, letting her sink into the dark, the snow and the heaviness of night falling around her, like an angel with dark, black wings.

* * *

I had never understood this obsession with having a landmark, a kind of compass symbolized by a person, this passion for someone, whether bad or not. I didn’t think I could love anyone one day, and I didn’t think I could hate anyone either_—_Well I _ actually _ couldn’t. Transient affection, simmering anger in the temples, shaking lips, but nothing more. No spark, no broken heart or broken time, no goosebumps even under overwhelming heat. No sweaty hands drawing the outline of a tearful face, no pain in the hands, fists, ears or mouth. I had never pierced a look which made me want to be good but in my _ own _ way, which told me that I deserved some comfort too, _ sometimes_, that I was allowed to have a serene heart, despite the sweaters that scratched, my bloody hands or my hair sticking on my blue and hungry cheeks.

I had never felt all that.

I had never felt that _ before_.

Before _ him_.

It was a look, a kind of revelation during the gray night of January 1st. I still remembered the buzzing sound of his broken alarm clock, his feet occasionally brushing against mine, his tears on the pillow moistening my cheeks, the lonely wind slipping into the room to lift random school papers strewing on the floor. His little finger brushed against mine, his nose was wet and his chest had been lifting regularly for a few minutes. I was in front of him; I wanted to close my eyes but I couldn’t, a kind of fear to lose that vision of his face so close to mine_—_so close that I could see a tear in his eye. I remembered when he looked at me softly, raising his head, slipping his sandy hair on the pillow, to finally meet my eyes. His eyes blended perfectly into the darkness that filled the room, matching the bed sheets that were colored like a winter dark blue. I looked at his lips, and my heart was ravaged by a frightening desire to kiss him _ again_, knowing that it was only during this rare and hot contact that I was feeling alive.

But I didn't do it. I watched him, and he did the same. It was that look I had thought about during my night terrors after Vegas, or at night, before I fell asleep. It was to that look to which I linked all my life, this look that made me understand that despite the fact that I was going to have to be a _ thing, _ at some point in this world_—_something insignificant, disturbing, or simple, even only average_—_I wanted to be _his_.

I was a kid, and I was humiliated every time I betrayed myself by trying to forget him, to tell myself,_ shit c’mon like_, it's _ just _ him, someone I get along with, I laugh with, I share with, how the _ fuck is _ it different_—_but the problem was that it _ was _ so _ fucking _different: in my heart, in my head, in his contact, in our weak smiles or our strong giggles, that it just began to hurt. And I had to live with it.

And it is this look that I instantly detected when I finally entered the house, after waiting for a good ten minutes in front of the brick red door. Hands in pockets, hair in my eyes, my boots cracking the waxed floor, with a false, crooked smile.

Like evidence_—_which I still have trouble explaining: shivering in the back, tremors in the chest_— _ I had raised my head to the exact place where he was standing, leaning against the chimney, wearing a suit _(_again)whilst holding a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was surrounded by (probably) _ boring _ people, who he certainly didn’t even know. The lush color and all the luminous rays giving life to the room were attacking my eyes, and people passed in front of me with a frightening speed_—Jeez, how many people were there?—_made me topple, suffocated by the horrible heat of the room. He smirked when he saw me, and I hated to say it but his smile, so rare since Amsterdam, was so contagious when we lived together in Antwerp, that I caught myself returning it to him, _ sometimes _ like that, from time to time, a shy smile, here and there, a kind of a _ thank you for being there_, _ in spite of all the shit I’m taking, that I made you take, that I made you live. _

But in Antwerp, he never seemed bothered to be there—he just felt sorry for me, looking at my condition with a sad look. He had to hold my hand for long hours, to wipe my forehead, to gently caress my arm, before I could finally fall asleep after long days I spent completely clean. Sweat on my forehead, tremors and uncontrolled vomiting—he saw everything. But he helped me. He really did—preparing breakfast after turning my little radio on, sending encouraging smiles, tapping my shoulder when he was crossing the flat to get a book on the sofa, or proposing to go out for a walk by getting me my coat, his head tilted to the side, which could be translated into a_ c’mon Boris, come get some fresh air_. A sort of invert of roles, strange, but it seemed so normal that it never made me feel uncomfortable, _ as always_. I had been _ there _ and he was _ there _at that time as well, proving our irresistible urge to be close to each other, or to rescue each other, like when we see our whole universe collapse, leaving us broken and stirred by an intense sorrow—I needed him as much as he needed me.

One day, I started to get better, a little bit, and I hoped we could live like that. _ C’mon, Potter. Why not_? _ Like the good old days. _

I guessed I hoped too hard.

I approached him, gently, avoiding kids turning in circles in the living room, glasses of Coke in their hands, icy blue dresses, gray suits. I was a few meters from him—I could see his mole on his chin, unchangeable, fixed, and the reflection of the light in his glasses, his lips pink with the warm present in the room, and his ring finger—_he’s wearing an alliance, he's wearing a fucking alliance, _ I thought_—_playing with the crystal of his glass. He was pushing back his glasses when I had already opened my mouth to speak—but a figure appeared in front of me, blocking my view and the passage.

Annoyed, I finally looked at who was standing in front of me, and I raised my eyes in surprise: blond hair that had been curled by a cheap curling iron, severe gray eyes, luscious sulked red lips, hands on hips, frowning eyebrows, tight red dress, dangling earrings_—_Kitsey.

"Kitsey! How are you?"

"Don’t play with me, Boris. I agreed for you to come, and it's not for you to ruin my event, _ again_. You hear me? No trip to Amsterdam, Manchester or whatever. I'm watching you." I smiled. "And don’t make him drink."

I nodded, and she turned to welcome old newcomers._ "Francis! Priscilla! What a pleasure to see you again!" _ a bright smile appearing on his face as if it had never left it.

When the passage was finally released, I walked towards him, laying my shoulder against the fireplace to face him, with my sweaty hands, nervous. Then I stupidly raised my eyebrows, trying to hide the heartbeat noisily chattering in my chest; however, as soon as he smiled, softly, everything was instantly unlocked. As if he had never left, as if everything were normal, as if life really meant something: not just a touch of pencil on a blank paper, a pure drawing, colorful, a real painting of feelings and light.

"Hey."

I laughed in response, whilst giving Kitsey a look and a movement of head, who was asking the children to stop jumping on the floor, her heels slipping a little every time a kid was bumping into her.

"Hah! That is _ what _ I call a beauty."

"Oh, shut up."

"Is she… _ Good _ to you? You know— You know with _ that_."

"You're so fucking stupid."

"Oh, Potter! Still so _ fucking _ hung up. Hey. I can’t believe it. Reunited again, huh? God, I need to smoke."

"Yes—”

"What a beautiful suit. The one you bought at the Antwerp shop, right?”

"Boris..."

"No, no, everything is fine. You're free, Potter. Your own wings, you know? No problem. But I really need to have a smoke right now. Or a drink." I tapped his glass with my hand, my rings against it, causing a sharp noise. "Where did your princess hide those things, huh? I need strong stuff.”

"You are unbelievable. Follow me."

He put his glass on the fireplace, and motioned me to follow him. We crossed a horde of people, all patting his shoulder, whispering "_Beautiful party! Beautiful party, Mr Decker!_" and despite the radiant smile he showed, I knew he was faking it.

We arrived in the kitchen _—_small, green_— _and as he began searching for something, I put my hands in my pockets, triturating the corpse of my phone, while looking at him, his lips pinched, stirring the bottles at the bottom of a closet and adjusting his glasses to read the labels. When he noticed my indiscreet look, he began to laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing. Beautiful hideout."

He turned, a bottle in his hand, a smile on his face. "And she thinks I don’t know it."

"I can’t fucking believe it! Potter! A miracle!"

He laughed again, taking a glass at random in the sink. I put my head against the doorway, my hair flattening under the gesture_—_then he uncorked the bottle, tongue stuck between his teeth_—_a sign of concentration, he was doing the same thing when he was about to steal in one of the ultra-guarded stores in the school district in Vegas. Sometimes I would look at him and be struck by a sudden cooling down when his eyes were shining, when he was frowning, or when he was scratching his temple, all these insignificant gestures that were _ so _ important to me, _ so _comforting because they reminded me how much I had felt comfortable with him all this time.

Then he handed me the glass, his glasses moved under the sudden gesture he had made by removing the cap, which had made us both laugh like real kids.

I took a sip, after a silence, without taking my eyes off him, and a shiver ran through my body when he did the same thing, trying not to break the contact with his bright almond colored eyes. He ran his tongue over his lips, and I scraped my throat—through the window, the snow was pounding against the tiles, creating a little melody in the room.

"So many people," I said, breaking the silence, shaking my drink to make a gesture around my head.

"I know almost nobody. I'm glad you're here." he replied, fiddling with the end of his shiny, black suit, so consistent and serious.

I looked at my glass. "Yeah, me too."

His fingers were playing with the corkscrew on the table and his eyes were staring at a forgotten stain of coffee."I really am."

"I know," I said, placing my glass sharply on the table between us, tight throat. He jumped, which made me giggle, while giving me a stern look, but with a weak grin that betrayed him instantly.

He often tried to look responsible, always serious—but when it was only the two of us, he could not help but let his heart relax with mine, letting himself laugh and play. Clapping his hands in a laugh, or his head swaying gently when there was good music that resonated in the air _— _ The Velvet Underground, The Beatles, Chuck Berry, New Order, Fleetwood Mac _— _ with the maximum volume on his iPod in his room in Vegas (_Popchyk! C’mon Popchyk dance! _ he was screaming to the dog while catching a random bottle that spilled on the carpet), or after choosing a vinyl in my apartment in Antwerp.

"God Potter, still _ so _sensitive."

"Shut up."

"So..._ Decker—Barbour, _ huh?"

"Oh. Yeah..."

I stepped forward to gently tap the gold wedding ring on his hand. "No invitation for the wedding huh? I see."

"_Listen—_"

"Hmm."

"Let me finish. We did it without any... Artifices. There were only two of us, a priest and the Barbours."

"No artifices? Kistey? No artifices?" I laughed, patting his shoulder with my finger.

He hit my hand, squeezing his lips. "Stop making fun of her."

"Okay, okay Potter, I will."

We looked at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter, ignoring voices from the living room, slipping through the half-open kitchen door, calling Potter to go in the living room to welcome a guest.

"I really don’t want to go—"

"Then don’t."

"But I…"

"Come on, let's go for a walk. Take Popchyk! I miss him. Oh, God—I miss him."

He smirked as he grabbed a jacket and scarf from the kitchen worktop while pushing back his glasses. He opened a door in the room, overlooking outside.

"Emergency exit?"

"Shut up. Follow me." he said, sighing, but still with a laugh in his voice.

"And Popchyk?"

"Popchyk is sleeping, Boris. He’s old now. We are too, we’ve changed... Look at us. _ God _, Kitsey is gonna kill me.”

My smile instantly dissipated at these words, nodding gently, feeling a pain tearing my chest.

_ No, I didn’t change. Not for you. _

I followed him, closing the door abruptly, entering the night, the thick snow falling on our shoulders.

* * *

"Look at all that snow, Potter! Huh? Worthy of a Tolstoy novel! God, his books..."

"I know." he said to me, pressing his shoulder against mine, to make fun of my wonder.

"Stop it. I love snow. So unpredictable... So sublime, Potter. Arriving only occasionally. It’s soft."

"It's ice, Boris."

"Potter! Jesus, no sense of poetry, huh?"

"You're stupid. Are you high?"

I smiled before him tapping the shoulder, with a sad look. "Because I’m not supposed to be? Look at this crazy world... Don’t even affect me anymore! No effects! A routine, I’m telling you! As ordinary as brushing my teeth." He looked at me. Worried eyes. "Come on, Potter, don’t look at me like that. I'm fine. I swear to you. No more lies."

He told me about his return to New York. He avoided talking to me about the beginning of it, of course, knowing that it involved Antwerp and his departure, which remained a mystery to me. He had understood, by the look on my face, that it was the subject to not mention—but I knew that it was tormenting him as well, noticing that sometimes he was looking at the night, staring into space, his mind wandering, and often he was moving away from me, after committing a gesture a little too affectionate.

I was used to that, though—since we were kids Potter had been afraid of his gestures, as if he looked vulnerable: his hand grabbing my arm when he laughed loudly, or when he touched my face, high, whispering "_woahhh_" (which often happened in Vegas after we drank, his skin shining under the blue reflections of the pool—he always needed to touch _ me_, my cheeks, my arms, my hair, to be sure I was really here.) Or when he caught himself grabbing my hand to catch me up in the street when we were walking, like in Antwerp, _ especially _ since Amsterdam: as if he was afraid that I’d suddenly escape, that I’d get kidnapped or that a guy would suddenly jump from the corner of the street and slit our throats—s_top walking so fast_, he was saying to me, removing his hand brutally, rubbing it against his jacket as if I had bewitched him, his eyes fleeing, his words full of stutters, worried looks to the people passing next to us. He was aware of his gestures the second after he had done them, as if he’d got caught in the act, under the spotlight, exposed, guilty—he lowered his head, straightened his glasses and cleared his throat, whilst I, impassive, looked at him, tight lips, my burning skin begging for contact with his again, as a sad and deafening silence reigned between us.

He also told me about Kitsey, how it went _ quickly_, _ like that_, _ nothing too much planned_, and he was _ not that unhappy_. I frowned, irritated, hurt, knowing that he had not told me before—not a message: nothing.

I mean, _ okay_, I was not an ace in the sense of communication, sending stuff _ here _ and _ there_, but _ c’mon_, it was Potter—and after Amsterdam, he was so weird, especially since the hotel room incident (I was still having nightmares, waking up sweaty thinking I had arrived too late) but I thought it was over, in a way, when he laid his head discreetly on my shoulder as we were watching a shitty film that was playing on TV at that time in Antwerp, his neck illuminated by the fairy lights around us, as we were protected by the walls of the apartment—safe from the angry and ruthless world. He had killed someone in front of me, _ okay_, I _can _ understand—but it was me. _ Boris_, his friend. Were we friends? I didn’t know. Did I want it? To be friends? _ I didn’t think so. _

"And the redhead?"

"Pippa?"

"Mmh." I looked for a cigarette in my pocket.

"She’s in London. And Hobie’s on a trip to Prague."

"Alone for the new year, then?"

"No, you’re here. You're the only one here."

I lit my cigarette.

The avenue where Kistey and Potter's house was located was empty. The other houses in the suburb were noisy; laughter and the champagne bubbles escaped through the windows, but we were only two to walk there, in the white infinity, our hands brushing with each step a little too abruptly.

He stopped walking suddenly, patting my chest. His hair was covered with flakes, and his nose was red. I smiled.

"Do you have a cigarette for me?"

"Of course, Potter. Always."

He smiled and took the cigarette that was between my fingers, slowing his gesture when our skin suddenly touched. "..._Thank you_."

"_No problem,_" I whispered, quietly, still staring at him, after I stopped in my tracks.

Whilst putting my cigarettes back in my pocket, still troubled and distracted by the feeling of warmth on the palm of my hand since its contact with his, I suddenly made a wrong move, and I felt my boots slip under the snow.

_ "Jebany— _Shit. Fuck."

Without paying attention, I tried to catch myself by clinging to Potter's jacket—which was a very bad idea: I dragged him with me, swearing in Polish, and we fell to the ground, like two good for nothings. My head hit the ground, and he was on top of me, laughing, his sparkling eyes matching the stars in the black sky, which were shining above him.

"My cigarette! My fucking cigarette!"

"And mine!"

"It’s mine anyway! I want to fucking kill myself. These shits are expensive as fuck. Potter, stop laughing!"

He laughed again, his eyes squinting and revealing his dimples, which I had so often caressed during painful nights. Then he looked at me, after letting his smile fade by just opening his mouth, as if he was about to say something, but it died by melting on his tongue.

He didn’t move, letting our breaths create foggy and cold fumes, which intermingled in the little space that separated us_—_I could see snow in his lashes, a poetic touch on his sad face, despite the laughter that just came out of his mouth. He’d always had a sad face, which made me want to comfort him, to squeeze his shoulder, to slip reassuring whispers in his ear: _ hey, it’s alright_, or to caress his cheeks that had so often been damaged by tears, or dust. And when a smile dared to emerge on his lips, it made my heart accelerate and everything came back to life, everything tasted like stars, everything made sense, and I found life not _ that _stupid after all.

_ His lips. _

It was his lips that I looked at before sliding my eyes to his face, to see that it was _ my own _he was watching at this moment.

A confused look, flakes melted on his scarf, lamp post lights illuminated his hair, his slippery glasses slid down his nose.

I raised my hand gently, pushed them back, and dared to whisper the sentence that had been gnawing my heart for weeks, killing my brain and paralyzing my limbs. "Why did you leave..."

He shook his head, gently slapping his fist on the snow next to my right ear, closing his eyes. "Boris..."

"Potter..." I murmured, cutting him off.

"I…"

"I was so mad at you… I still am..." I said quietly, caressing the contours of his jaw.

He opened his eyes, slowly, looking down at my lips _ again_, his tongue licking his own _ again_; which made me feel goosebumps on my neck, softly brushed by his scarf. Our breathing quickened and I felt my ears buzzing, as if a crowd was screaming in my head: _ what's going on? What the fuck is going on_? My hand clutched the snow on the ground, and I felt the cold paralyzing my fingers. A lock of his hair fell on his face, stroking his nose.

"If you don’t do it," I finally said, letting my arm fall back to my side, with a passionate, burning gaze, "I will."

I shut my mouth quickly, wondering how he would react—_does he remember? God, please make him remember. _ His angry eyes, our pickled lips, a little messy at first but _ so _ tender and _ so _beautiful, our dirty hair mixing under the murmuring of the TV, our hands trying to find each other, overwhelmed by what just had happened.

This memory, I often clung to it, the only one that had the power to bring me back to reality, like when you take your head out of the water—to breathe, to look at the sky, _ to live_. I didn't try to forget it, letting it drag in my head, to make me cry, _ sometimes_—to make me cry, _ yes _ , to remind me that I was human or that I was still alive: after Vegas, when my head hit the ground, when my lungs filled with darkness, or when my eyes saw an empty universe_—I knew it_. When tears slid down my cheeks, I knew _ I was there_, living, and maybe _ he was there _ living as well, somewhere.

He didn’t react, as if time has slowed down, his hair mixing with the wind, and icy smoke mingling with the night, like a forgotten recollection. My throat ached and I felt tears slip from the corner of my eyes, a warm contact on my rosy cheeks, slipping on the whiteness of the ground.

"Boris, I… _ Fuck_."

I turned my head, feeling vulnerable under his eyes, which made me feel an awful pain in my chest because _ he was so beautiful _ here, under the starry sky, the snow protecting his hair, his mouth ajar, so kissable—I lowered my eyes, slowly enough to see his watch adorning his wrist, in silver, the second hand slowly advancing, as if the world had stopped, and that there was only me, only him. _ There has always been only him. _

_ Almost midnight. _

_ Three, two, one... _

"I_—_"

I did not have time to say anything, like a dubious excuse with an awkward look, _ hah, Potter! Gotcha! _ whilst letting my heart split in two—because suddenly, he kissed me, his hands holding my face, his thumbs caressing my tears, letting his body fall, combining violently with mine.

* * *

I kept my eyes open a few seconds, dazed, before finally melting into him and his kiss, his forehead against mine, our noses bumping against each other— it was not _ rough_, it was not _ violent_, it was not _ rushed_: it was _ us_. It was as if our bodies had been asking for this contact for years, eternity: our jaws clashed, our mouths rediscovered themselves—and everything was so real, so _ fucking _ obvious that we ended up gasping, wanting at all costs to know everything about each other again. When he freed himself for a second to catch his breath, I took the opportunity to gently remove his glasses, placing them next to me, my mouth still close to his, my eyes on his face—red cheeks, starry eyes. He leaned down again, but I put my finger on his lips, caressing their contours, before letting them graze mine, while he stared at me with a passion that warmed my body.

"_Fuck..._"

"I don’t think I'm drunk." he said, cutting me off, whispering against my lips.

"I don’t think I am, either." I replied, waiting for him to kiss me again.

And that's what he did, one hand caressing my neck, the other twisting some curls of my hair, and I smiled under his lips. He kissed me again and again, passing from sweet and tender kisses to the wild and devastating ones, while my hand caressed his ribs, cursing the heavy coat he was wearing, preventing the contact against his skin. I couldn’t help but sigh his name softly under the kisses, as if we were once again connected in the most beautiful and graceful way, letting us to be swept away by our furious desire to kiss each other even more, as if we were fighting over who cared more about the other.

I always loved kissing Potter in Vegas—anywhere. When we sat in front of the television and I leaned over to grab the remote next to him, I often kissed his shoulder, he’d be startled by the sudden contact, after he stared at the screen into space, his mouth shut and silent. I kissed his cheeks too, thanking him for pinching stuff for Christmas or Thanksgiving—he was then smirking, shaking the Smarties' packets while running in the kitchen, me behind him, tickling his ribs to steal the treats. Then his back, when he _ needed _ it—kisses along his spine or on his shoulder, to help him fall asleep, after he woke up breathing loudly, unable to move, his hands grabbing the alcohol-stained sheets, his wide-eyed eyes looking at the ceiling as if he was screaming silently: _ Boris, Boris… Please, I can’t fucking breathe._ And then, his lips, _ sometimes_, when _ something _ was happening between us: the alcohol returning to our brains, the halos of colors invading our necks and our torsos, ruffling our hair—then there were these kisses, _ sober_, which returned the heart and shut down the world: it was as if we were talking without really doing it, passing messages never left to be said in the silence of the night or in the heat of the day, lest they actually take shape and that everything becomes a little too serious, a little too adult.

And that fear came back that night, too, brought by a thin voice melting with the wind.

"Theo!"

He jumped off of me as fast as he could.

He leaned on my shoulders, straightening up and grabbing his glasses next to me, without giving me a single look. I closed my eyes, letting the wind replace his lips, violently stroking my face, a sort of slap bringing me back to reality, like a weight attached to the foot regaining its heaviness, flowing in icy water, tearing with acidity the skin, like daggers cutting my body.

"Theo, I've been looking for you more than half an hour! You missed the countdown... What are you both doing on the floor? Did you drink? Theo_ do not _ tell me you're drinking. We said only one—"

"No, Kitsey. We aren’t drinking, don’t worry. _ Please_."

He had a distant voice, and I could see him pulling up his glasses anxiously, as if I knew him by heart, which was true. I got up slowly, cleaning my pants that were covered in snow, and ran my hand through my hair, making some flakes fall_— _then I looked up, to see Kitsey in a jacket too big for her, eyes staring at Theo, arms crossed, legs trembling, her lipstick almost gone, red marks on her chin and her jacket. He had his hands in his pockets, his mouth half open, swaying on his feet, staring at the ground. The light of the moon lit up his frozen face, and I saw he was trembling.

I was about to open my mouth to say something. To reassure Kitsey to make her leave, to be with Potter, _ alone _ again_—_but he cut me off, which made me feel like I had received a punch in the stomach.

"Listen, Kitsey, I'll be there in a few minutes. Boris was about to leave. I’m going to call a cab, let me say goodbye."

"Okay. I’ll wait for you inside."

He nodded, with a brief smile, letting her walk away with her heels on the snow, in silence. He was breathing hard, staring at Kitsey disappearing in the winter fog.

When she was indistinguishable in the darkness of the night, I saw him approaching me_—_an angry look, steps noisily brushing the snow, hand unsheathed and pointed at me—he pressed my shoulder to push me, with wrinkling lips and small eyes.

"Potter_—_"

"Don’t."

"I..."

"What the fuck was that, Boris!"

"What?"

"Why did you do that, huh? Tell me!"

"What the f_— _"

"Why did you..."

"Are you fucking kidding me? You kissed me!_You, _Potter!"

"You didn’t have to look at me like that!"

"Hah! Because it's my fault now?"

We were screaming, our voices resonating in the alley that was initially silent, by letting the cracklings from the street lights being the only noise reigning in the air. We raised our hands, pressing our shoulders to push back each other, contact that burned our skin through our thick coats.

"Yes! Yes it is!"

"It doesn’t make any sense!"

"Why did you do that? Why did you... You had no right!"

"Potter it's _ you, _ you kissed me_— _"

"Shut up, that's enough! I want you to leave."

I shook my head, stepping back. "You want me to leave?"

"Yes."

"You want me to _ fucking _leave?"

"For God’s sake, Boris!"

"Or what? Huh? I will stay on your sofa and you will call me at night to do it in the dark? Alone?"

He looked at me then began to laugh, sarcastically, which twisted my stomach, making tears appear in my eyes.

"Boris, I want you to_—_"

"Why did you leave?"

"I _ don’t _want to talk about…"

"Why did you leave me alone in Antwerp? Why did you _ fucking _leave me!"

He just looked at me, shaking his head.

"Tell me!" I said, screaming louder than I actually wanted.

"You said you—you… Why did you say that? You broke the rule, you…" He looked at the floor, trying to catch his breath.

"What did I even say?"

He lowered his voice. "That you loved me. In your sleep. You said that you loved me."

I let out a laugh, a kind of breath, which created a bubble of smoke that flew into the sky. The fact that I wasn’t surprised was not something extraordinary. We both knew it for a long time, despite the fact that it had never been said out loud. He had seen it, in my looks, in my gestures. In my caresses on his neck at night, when we could not sleep: in Vegas because of an episode that had just happened between my father and I, or in Antwerp, when suddenly memories of Amsterdam were resurfacing in our minds, randomly, at the sight of an article in the press we noticed in the street the day, or when we remembered that my revolver was in the kitchen drawer.

"So I'm supposed not to say how I—_ God,_ did you expect me to stay fucking silent about it during my whole life? Come on, Potter. Stop acting like it's new. _ Please_."

He ran his hands over his face, and shook his head quickly, as if he was trying not to hear me, trying not to understand—_to avoid, to avoid everything, fast and even faster. _ He rubbed his arm, then closed his eyes, refusing to look at me. I idiotically remarked that it had stopped snowing: the wind only was dominating, mingling with our voices, lifting our coats and our hair.

"Boris, leave. Please." he hissed desperately.

"Fine."

I looked at him, allowing a few tears to slide down my cheeks for the second time of the evening, my hands shaking in my pockets. I squeezed my lighter and my phone with all my strength to keep myself from falling to the floor, kneeling, praying not to feel that pain again. But I just nodded, turning to walk straight ahead, my heart heavier than it ever was.

When I looked behind my shoulder, _ one last time_, he was turning his back on me, walking, head down in the opposite direction. _ Turn around. C’mon turn around, _ I thought.

But he didn’t.

So I lowered my eyes as I walked again, ignoring my tears falling on the ground, melting softly with the snow.

* * *

Night.

Well, I assumed—It had been days since I'd been out of my room, and I had lost the habit of watching my phone or the alarm clock on the bedside table, staying awake from morning till night like a machine, unable to close his eyes. My body was clamoring again and again, and I was deeply unstable, knowing that I could succumb at any time, my address book resting on my desk. I could have some, _ now _ if I wanted to, (and I did)—but I stayed on my bed, shirtless and still with pajama pants, stained by the disgusting coffee that room service brought in the morning, about eight o'clock. When they were knocking on the door, I gently got up, tangled my hair, mimicking a lazy attitude to act as if I had really slept, then I took the breakfast that was on the set, giving a quick nod to the person from the hotel service. But for a few days I had lost the notion of time, which was the only thing I could still perceive around me—so I felt lost, but most of all, I felt lonely.

I never complained about being alone before, being used to finding myself face to face with the moon, chatting with myself whilst chewing the cold leftovers of the dinner from the last evening, laughing with the reflection of my mirror when I was doing my lines on the sink, or setting up a discussion with myself while I was playing with the ring that used to be my wedding one, before I finally forgot about it and which ended up in the washing machine—_so _ insignificant, _ so _ stupid, knowing that it had been months that it was dragging in the pocket of my old jeans.

Yet, being alone in this New York hotel, my mind being ruined by addictions of all kinds, creating invisible waves with my hand in the air, my head crushing the hard pillows, the smoke of my cigarette circling over me, was bothering me—pains in my chest, as if I were sick. I tried to throw up, or to find a way to get rid of that feeling that stuck to my skin, which was still burning and sweaty. But when I realized it was because of _ him_, I collapsed on the floor, my head against the wall, my cigarette hanging on my lips, my eyes closed, and my shoes slipping from my ankles.

I didn’t try to call him, despite that one night, when I had woken up with a start, shaking: I had looked next to me in the bed, which was _ empty—_I had started to panic, standing up in the bedroom, going round in circles, my hands brushing my sweaty chest with absurdity, before finally remembering, suddenly, that he had never been _ there_, and all the memories of the other night had suddenly risen in the hollow of my throat, blocking my breath before I slowly exhaled, putting myself back to bed, pulling up the blanket to my chin. _ I had not slept since. _

So I just ignored my phone on the small desk, whilst watching New York behind the window, a cup of tea in my hand, a t-shirt with wrinkled holes on the hips. I actually had called Myriam though, but she had already gone back to France with her girlfriend—she seemed worried despite my laughter on the phone: she knew me too well, which was often taken for my disadvantage: _ you just have to call me if you need something… And I’ll come back, okay? _

_ Yes! Yes, of course. Hah_. I answered, knowing very well that I was never going to do it.

It was then during a presupposed night that I heard weak knocks against the door. I didn’t answer, continuing to watch my cigarette burning in my fingers, lying on my bed, waiting for the bellboy to go away. I was cold, my naked chest covered with goosebumps, I was too bothered to get up to catch a sweater in my suitcase which was spread on the floor, my clothes mixed with the remains of some ashtrays. I didn’t remember ordering something to drink or eat, but I thought I might have done it after all, I mean _ why not_—I remembered almost nothing of my boring days, sometimes putting a sugar in my tea again when I had already put two in a few minutes ago, or opening a pack of cigarettes while one was already in my mouth.

The knocks came back, a little stronger this time. "_For God’s sake—_" I whispered, exasperated. Then again. "Jeez! Can you please leave me alone? I’m sleeping!" I said, screaming while sinking my head in my pillow.

"_Boris?_"

It was a low whisper, but loud enough for me to recognize it, and to be heard behind the heavy door of my room. I stared at it, confused, after throwing my cigarette into my glass of water next to me, and then lifting my head off the bed. I rose slowly, approaching the door, suspicious and scared that it was my mind playing a trick on me again—it had already happened: sometimes I was hearing his voice after Vegas (when I was fucked up, crying on my fate in front of the painting, which was making fun of my despair), after Antwerp (when I was on my couch, noticing that he had forgotten one of his books on the table of my living room) or after the New Year's night a few days ago (when the lack of sleep made me see strange visions, and made me hear imaginary things, sorts of incessant mirages.)

I unlocked the door slowly, eyes narrowed so I could get used to the light coming out of the hallway, my other hand on my hip, to appear, _ relaxed_, _ cool_, while a storm was raging inside me—then I froze suddenly when the door was fully opened. _ It was really him. _

I took a step back when I saw that he was there, in front of me, after days without news since our quarrel—red eyes under his glasses, colorless cheeks, distinct dark circles, sweaty nose, dry lips but with his coat perfectly clean, his scarf on his shoulders, hair in perfect condition. As I lowered my head, I saw that his hands were trembling—and I felt my heart tightening and the weight in my stomach punching me, tearing my body to pieces, more and more violently every second. He was _ really _ on the doorstep of my room, after weeks of mental torture, cries on the hotel's bath mat and insomnia killing the little reason I had left when I could feel the madness crushing my head and infiltrating my veins—and we were _ really _ staring at each other, silently, as if the words (which had never been our strong point) were still not enough to express our miserable states of mind.

"Boris—"

"What are you doing here this late?"

"It’s 8am."

"Whatever— what are you doing here this early?"

"I—"

"How did you find me?"

"It’s Myr—"

"Wait— Are you here to yell at me again?"

"What the fuck? Boris can I—"

"Do you want something to eat? I can order something."

"Boris."

"Huh?"

"Can I just come in?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure."

I shifted so he could enter, bowing my head. He narrowed his eyes and frowned when he discovered the stale smell of the room, the one I'd been bathing in for days. He skirted my clothes on the floor, the empty tea cups and the few grains of sugar that had clung to the carpet before sitting on the bed, rubbing his hands, his eyes avoiding me.

"I hope you don’t have an urge to pee! Hah! Vomit on the toilet bowl."

"That’s fucking disgusting, Boris."

"Oh come on, we’ve been through worse."

"Boris... Myriam called."

Myriam. _ Fuck Myriam._ What could she have even said after all? That I was going crazy? That I was going to collapse again? That I was a good for nothing? I was trying to be angry, to find reasons to push my fist against the wall—but she was right. So right that I laughed softly, sat next to him, running my hands over my thighs, picking up some brioche leftovers on the floor, and casually tossing them in the trash next to the bed, my naked feet rubbing against the carpet, the only noise reigning in the room.

"So what? Did you want some stuff? What did she sell you?"

"Nothing—"

"Good. She is a little nutty sometimes. Doesn’t care about her clients’s profiles, stuff like that."

"_God— _ Boris, she called for _ you_."

I didn’t answer, staring at the floor. Then we heard the person in the next room suddenly stand up, their headboard slamming sharply in our common wall, then a few minutes passed before we heard an old blues song go by, with only the low trumpets crossing the partition.

"She told me. She asked me to come, to check on you. To see if everything was fine."

"Well, everything's fine, Potter."

"I didn’t come because she told me to, I—" I raised an eyebrow. "I wanted to come, too. I just hesitate sometimes."

"But you are here."

"Yes. I... I reread _ The Idiot _ the other day. And Kitsey told me it was a stupid novel."

"Quite a character, that princess, huh?"

"No, I mean—I'm sorry."

"Nah, everything is fine. Me too, I'm sorry. I had never shouted that loud since my trip to France. _ God_. Never eat frog’s legs. Advice."

"No. You don’t—" He sighed, irritated. "I’m _ so _ sorry_, _ Boris. I—”

I put my hand on his shoulder, breathing heavily. "Its fine."

"No. No, it's not. "

"Potter..."

"I'm married, Boris. I— _Fucking married._ _Fuck that_,” he said, dropping his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. "To Kitsey."

"I thought you weren’t that unhappy."

"I thought you knew me by heart."

_ I do, fucking idiot. _ "I thought I was bothering you—"

"You thought wrong."

"Potter—I'm just so fucking confused right now.”

"Listen. I came to apologize."

"For what?"

The fact that we both knew the reason for his visit, his words, his excuses running down his mouth and tears thickening in his eyes was pretty ironic_—_I wanted him to tell me, despite the fact that I knew he hated it. _ Later, Boris, _ he was telling me in Vegas when I asked him if he was fine after throwing himself on the road, waiting for a car to roll over him. _ Shut up, Boris, give me the cocktail sausages_, when I asked him about his cries at night. It was at the beginning of our relationship_—_I ended up stopping asking him anything anymore, letting him crawl into my arms at night without a word, just making sure he kept getting up every day and that his heart was still beating. But, when he was waking up from his dark dreams, he spoke and spoke, again and again, almost shouting: _ Boris you were, she was there_— _ dead, all dead_— _ Boris don’t leave me_. But I always calmed his alarming breath, caressing his back, my mouth against his ear. _ Breathe Potter, shh. _

"Do you remember my nightmare?"

I bit my lip, and he looked down, knowing what I was going to say. "Which one?"

"The one where. You know_—_" He looked at his ring on his hand and began to touch it. "I am getting married."

Surprised, I nodded. _ Yes _ I remembered it, as weird as it may seem. Thinking about it, I thought I could name all the nightmares he had told me, when we were laying by the pool, in the morning during breakfast (_hot tea, Xandra’s wet and disgusting bread to get skinny_) or in his room, when the night was embracing us.

"Well…"

"You told me you married a girl. Very unhappy. You hurt people. Your mom was there. I died. Is that correct?"

"I'm sorry it really happened."

He continued to rub his thumb against his ring, tears streaming down his nose, falling on his thighs, leaving small marks on his gray pants.

"Potter..."

"Because I hurt people. You."

"That is true. I waited for you to call me or to send me a wedding announcement. Hah."

I laughed. He didn’t.

"Boris. Don’t act like it's... Nothing."

"I don’t—"

"We were sober."

"We were. You told me to leave."

"I didn’t want you to leave—"

"But you asked me."

"Fuck—I know."

I approached him, after a few seconds of silence, then put my head on his shoulder. We were both staring into the empty space of the room, our two hands joined_—_I then stroked the back of his hand, gently, before stopping at the ring. Frightened look, his hand freezing under my touch. He cried, paralyzed by fear.

"I—"

"Shhh."

I began to remove the ring from his finger, continuing to whisper words of encouragement in Polish, my head still on his shoulder, my hair wringing at the hollow of his neck. Then, suddenly, his other hand came to rest on mine, pulling the ring with me, while sniffling loudly.

"Let me do it."

"Of course."

I let my hand go up on his arm, caressing him to help, while I looked at him, sticking one or two kisses on his wet cheek from time to time. When It was finally removed, he placed it next to him, then turned to me_—_he had swollen eyes, tears streaming down his lips, falling from his nose. There was a silence before he chuckled, as if he was surprised at what he had just done: intense bravery, pride making his heart beat.

"I_— _ Boris, I..."

"Jeez. Looks like you're going to fuck a stranger, and you've removed your wedding ring to make you feel less guilty."

"Fuck you," he laughed, his eyes twinkling, "And kiss me. Please."

I went up to him, raising my head to put my forehead against his_— _a gesture that meant everything in spite of being so insignificant. Connected, together: that's what we were meant for.

"Don’t run away," I whispered against his mouth.

"I won’t."

I sighed, and he as well, his warm breath caressing my nose.

"Boris?"

I was about to kiss him, but he pulled me back slowly, the little bed cracking under his gesture. The music that had been playing for a long time from the other room suddenly stopped, reminding me that we were not alone on Earth, as I had thought so many times.

"Is it… Is it going to be that different?"

His question, so frightened and apprehensive, turned my heart upside down, and I was so moved that I shook my head, unable to hide the tears forming in my eyes.

"Potter... Yes, a little bit. But your heart_—_" I patted his chest, looking at him in the eyes, "Stays the same. I swear."

"I don’t know if it's a good thing," he laughed sarcastically, his foot playing with a mug on the floor.

"Shut up. I know that_—_"

"But I think I..." he cut me off, putting his glasses back on, then catching my hand.

"Huh?"

"Boris... _ I think I do_. You know…"

I understood. "Yes. I know."

Our knees were touching, and he rubbed his cheek tenderly in my hand. He was beautiful.

"I'm so sorry Boris, for everything_—_"

"Shh. _ I think I do _ as well."

"I know."

"Good. It's good, no? Huh? The two of us, as always! Potter and Boris! What do you think?"

"It’s perfect."

No more words than that, deep looks and skin touching each other, our surprising hungers of love and sick feelings when we were apart from each other, his fingers in my hair or my hands caressing his wrist_—_that's all the meaning of this "_I think I do_": _ridiculous_, _small_, _so fucking stupid_ at first sight, but so full of meaning, majestic and filled with words let slipped in the wind, in chlorinated water, in the snow or through the waves of a television. That was it. It was our two intersecting lives colliding, that could just seem like a fucking coincidence_—_but everything was already traced. It was us_—_two wounded and abandoned kids, unknown and rejected, one with raven hair with a disconcerting accent, and the other with broken glasses, sweaters too big for him and dusty hair_—_who were slipping gently in the light.

  
I smiled while pressing my lips against his_—_and it was the most beautiful kiss of all.


End file.
